Page 33 of Boyfriend
“Thanks for that brilliant idea, but all I was trying to do was lengthen your stride.”
“Show me,” I demand, stopping midstride.
“Sure thing. Look. I’m bending my knees a little bit, reaching my arms out, my upper body tilted forward. And…” He starts to move. “Hoo hoo hoo hee hee,” he says, pursing his lips like a gorilla.
I can’t help it. I giggle just like his female fan club at the Biscuit after a game.
“Hoo hoo hoo,” he says, striding forward. And—fine—I can see how the posture assists his skiing. He circles back, the gorilla noises growing louder. He doesn’t even stop when a man skis by him with a tiny kid in a pack on his back.
Yup. I’m a little more in love with him than I was already. Any hot guy who will voluntarily humiliate himself to teach you to ski has got to be a keeper.
“Your turn.” He stands up straight and smiles at me.
“All right,” I agree. “But only because you’re a really good sport.”
“Nah,” he says. “That title goes to you this weekend. Now let’s see it. Show me some gorilla, Abbi.”
I skip the noises. But I lean forward and start skiing again.
“Yeah! There you go.” He glides forward and ignores the track in favor of skiing next to me. We press on as the path turns around the lake. I can see skaters out in the center, and steam rising from the little metal chimneys on several of the ice fishing huts.
“You do any fishing?”
“Nope,” he says. “Too boring. Ice fishing is for old guys with beer guts. They just sit in there and drink all day.”
We ski side by side, and I start to get the hang of it. But it’s work. I’m puffing along now, and a light breeze sends snow glittering from the pine boughs down onto the path. “How long is this trail, anyway?”
“Oh, not long. About ten miles.”
“Omigod,” I squeak, and he laughs.
“It’s two miles, tops, Abbster. I’m just teasing you. And we can turn around anytime you want.”
“Good to know.”
“Of course, then we’ll go skating,” he says.
“Uh-oh.”
“You’ll love it. I’ll bring hot chocolate.”
“Oooh. Okay!”
He laughs.
* * *
It’s a really good day.
No, it’s a great day. We ski, we skate, and we hang out in the sunshine drinking cocoa. I feel like I’m on a vacation from my real life. There are no shifts at the bar, and there’s no homework.
There’s no grabby step-stepbrother.
That night’s dinner is another charcuterie fest in front of the fire, this one featuring—alongside the cheese—slices of ham and vegetables and dip.
“This is really decadent,” I gush, swirling a little glass of red wine that Weston has poured for me. I help myself to another French olive. I feel fat and happy staring into the fire.
“Save room for dessert,” Weston’s dad says. “I got a Bûche de Noël. But here’s a question—do you want to do presents tonight, or tomorrow morning? I’m happy to adhere to tradition, but you all seem to enjoy sleeping in.”
